Best Not To Be Repeated
by Kerkerian-Horizon
Summary: Of all the really stupid things Sherlock has done in his life, this one tops it all off. But then, "The Inexplicable" was too tempting to not at least try. The story has two parts, is set some time before Reichenbach and contains a minor spoiler for SoT, a miniature Sherlock and a fair amount of whump. No pairing.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock.

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**Best Not To Be Repeated**

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Part 1

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John Watson smiled as he was on the brink of waking up, unaware that he was doing so. He hadn't had an afternoon nap in ages, and he felt very cosy; outside, heavy rain was drumming against the windows, and he'd lit a fire in the fireplace earlier, making the living room quite snug.

"Fascinating," he heard Sherlock's voice somewhere in the flat; it was rather soft, seemingly distant, but John nevertheless heard a note of satisfaction, which was a relief, actually: a whole week of exceptionally bad weather, no case and no John to take it out on, since the doctor had been working at the clinic every day for a fortnight- Sherlock had been so high-strung and irritable that John had briefly considered to give his friend a taste of his own medicine and drug him, just to have some peace and celebrate the beginning of a week off.

Fortunately, Sherlock had seemed to have found something to occupy himself with when John had come home in the early afternoon, giving him the opportunity for a sound nap (which also was a nice way to celebrate having the following week off).

Unhurriedly, he blinked his eyes open and sat up, stretching and yawning; all he wanted from the rest of the day was a cupt of tea right then, a nice meal for dinner and to continue the book he was reading afterwards, preferably accompanied by a glass of wine; it'd make the perfect end for a rather enjoyable afternoon.

He looked around for Sherlock: ah, there he was, on the- wait, what? John blinked and rubbed his eyes, not quite sure about what he was seeing. His flatmate was standing on the kitchen table, which in itself was not even out of the ordinary, considering Sherlock's general disrespect for furniture. The fact which had John rubbing his eyes however was that Sherlock was about the size of a Barbie doll.

* * *

The doctor just sat and stared for a while. One part of his mind was urging him to pinch himself, but the part which was responsible for motor function was also staring, open-mouthed at that.

Sherlock finally seemed to have noticed he had an audience, and beckoned him over, beaming: "Oh, John, good!"

_That's why he sounded so far away_, John thought, dazedly, _his voice isn't as loud because he's so small. Am I still asleep? I must be dreaming. Maybe I'm having a fever_.

Slowly, he got to his feet and walked over to the kitchen.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked spiritedly, "you look rather pale."

"Erm," said John.

"I was experimenting," Sherlock said. "It all worked marvellously."

"You shrunk yourself."

"Yes. Though I prefer the term 'molecular restructuring'."

"Is it permanent?"

"God, no. It'll only last a week, if I calculated it correctly."

"A _week_!"

Sherlock quickly covered his ears with his hands: "Please don't shout. It's very loud for me."

"Oh. Sorry." John made an effort to lower his voice a bit: "How did you do that, Sherlock? It's impossible!"

Sherlock grinned, obviously proud of himself: "It was, until now. And I still think it generally is."

He sighed: "Do you remember the French decathlete and the 1.812 matchboxes?"

John nodded: "Yeah?"

Sherlock looked smug: "All empty except one. The inexplicable."

"And?"

"And voilá!"

"Voilá _what_?" John was beginning to lose his patience. "How did you use it? For what, exactly? What else did you use?"

Sherlock shushed him: "Not so loud!"

"Sorry."

"I didn't use anything else. Just- it."

For the second time in less than five minutes, John stared at his flatmate incredulously, this time however for entirely different reasons.

"You didn't know what it could do, and you _used_ it?" he found it very hard not to yell. "That's incredibly dangerous and stupid, Sherlock, you of all people should know that!"

"I experimented with it all morning," Sherlock said, lightly, "I only used it on myself once I had enough data."

"Well, that makes it so much better, of course," John fumed, "if you've got _data_."

"Really, John, I don't see what the fuss is about."

"_You're eight inches tall!_"

"Shhhh!"

John however had only just begun: "What will you do if the effect is irreversible? And how will you get around? What will you wear, apart from what you've got on now? What if one of your many enemies gets wind of this, huh? And what if there are any long-term effects?"

Sherlock waved him off: "It'll be okay. I will of course need an assistant." He looked at John with an expression as though he had just told him he had won the lottery.

"Oh, so it's my lucky day!"

His sarcasm was lost on the detective, who clapped his hands and rubbed them together expectantly: "Right. What about some tea to celebrate?"

John folded his arms in front of his chest: "I could just leave. I could go out for dinner and come back late, and you'd have to stay on this table all the while."

"You wouldn't do that," Sherlock replied off-handedly, "it's against your ethics. Besides, my phone is right here."

"What, this one?" John picked it up and put it in his pocket.

"Fine," Sherlock imitated him by also folding his arms, "you've made your point."

"Which is?"

John seemed to enjoy this far too much, after all he knew how much Sherlock valued his independence.

"I need you to assist me," he ground out.

"_Assist_?"

Sherlock growled in exasperation: "_Help_, then. I need you to help me. There, I said it."

"Wasn't that difficult, was it?" Now it was John who was looking smug.

"Is that the matchbox?" he then asked.

Sherlock nodded: "Best hide it somewhere."

"I'll put it with my gun."

"I said _hide_."

John sighed.

* * *

Ten minutes later, the doctor sat down with his cuppa; it had already proven a challenge to find something which Sherlock could use as a cup. They didn't have any thimbles, so they had finally settled on a plastic bottle cap, which was less than ideal.

"I'll have to go shopping for you," John said, frowning, as he watched Sherlock pulling all kinds of faces while he tried to drink.

"We couldn't possibly just shrink some stuff for you to use, could we?" he then added, an idea he hadn't considered before.

Sherlock raised the cap a little higher so that his face was hidden behind it: "No. It's gone out."

"Out? You mean, the-power-is-used-up out?"

"Yep."

John sighed. "Great."

"You'll have to measure me," Sherlock then said. "For scientific purposes."

"You're not planning to publish your findings, are you?"

"Of course not," Sherlock replied calmly, "but there might be more of those things, wherever it came from. I'll give the file to Mycroft. He might have use for it one day."

"Don't tell me he knows about this."

"Not yet. It's likely he'll come by though, I've never managed to keep him away for too long, after all."

John stirred his tea, deciding to tackle only one problem at the time: "Okay. So I'll go and buy a few items for you. As I've said, you'll need clothes, for example."

Sherlock looked down on himself: he was wearing only a shirt and his trousers, socks and shoes; in his enthusiasm he hadn't thought of putting on his jacket, or even his coat.

"Yes," he cleared his throat, "might be a good idea. I do have my least favourite dressing gown, though."

"You shrank it as well?"

"I had to do a few test runs, obviously, I told you I needed data. So I shrank my dressing gown, among other things. Then the skull. And then a spider."

"A spi- _hang on_. What other things?"

"Whatever was lying around," Sherlock replied vaguely and indicated a few tiny items John hadn't noticed before because they were lying behind the microscope.

John narrowed his eyes: "That's the book I'm reading! Sherlock!"

"Calm down, it'll pop back to its normal size in a week!"

"I don't want to wait a week! I want to read it now! Tonight! What else did you shrink, huh? My wallet, perhaps?"

"You're being ridiculous."

"_I _am being ridiculous? Tell that to the spider!" John took a deep breath to calm himself. "To recap: you shrank yourself and my book and the skull, but you didn't consider using the... the _thing_ on anything which might actually be useful, like a toothbrush, or cutlery."

"We'll make do," Sherlock said, off-handedly. "And it does come in handy that you've got a week off from Monday."

"Great," John regarded him resignedly: "I'll have to take you with me everywhere I go, won't I? Can't very well leave you alone."

"You could hide me in the bedroom somewhere."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Too many things that could happen to you."

"I'll be careful."

"Yeah, but what if the neighbour's cat comes visiting?"

"Just make sure that all the windows are closed."

"What if you need the loo?"

"Please."

"Oh, so what- you're above bodily functions now?"

"No, but we could... arrange for something before you leave."

"I'm not leaving you, end of discussion. It's too risky. I'm sorry, but you inflicted this on yourself, and me, by extension, so you'll have to accept that I'm setting the rules."

Sherlock looked so disgruntled that it bordered on comical.

John sighed: "Sherlock- please do take this serious. We have to be careful, and not only in here. If someone sees you and it leaks to the press, your life will be in serious danger."

"I imagine so," Sherlock said, smugly, "considering my many enemies."

"You seem proud."

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are. It's impressive how you're _not_ taking the whole situation serious."

"And you're contradicting yourself. If you don't want anyone to see me, it's probably wise _not_ to take me with me you if you go shopping."

"I'm not leaving you here on your own," John said firmly. "Either you'll come with me, or I'll have to tell Mrs Hudson."

"You wouldn't."

"I would. She'd probably find you _cute_. Maybe she'd even sew you some clothes."

Sherlock's eyes widened at the idea: "Fine," he then growled. "I'll come with you."

"Good," John said. "We can test it right away."

* * *

Now they needed to find a suitable means of transportation, since Sherlock was still too big for John's shirt pockets or any other inner pockets, and putting him into one of the patch pockets on his coat might draw too much attention on them in case the detective moved.

After some deliberation, John decided to use an old messenger bag of his. It was made of canvas and would allow Sherlock to breathe. The detective stepped on John's hand hesitantly, seemingly not much heavier than the cockatiel Harry once had, and peeked into the bag: "It's smelly," he complained.

"You'll live." John carefully lowered him down and put Sherlock's mobile down next to him: "If you need anything and I don't notice it, call me."

Sherlock gave a resigned sigh: "Let me guess: but don't say anything, in case people might hear."

"Exactly." John gave Sherlock one last smile before closing the bag: "Relax. It'll be fine."

Trying not to jostle it, he slung the bag over his shoulder; he had shortened the strap a bit so that the bag would sit just next to his hip.

"Are you okay?" he asked in an undertone once he had pulled the door to the house close behind him.

"Yes, yes, fine," Sherlock's considerably smaller voice answered, sounding impatient.

John refrained from asking him again, even after the hubbub of the tube; he had one hand on the bag all the time in order to steady it, but he couldn't prevent people from bumping into him a few times. Since Easter was coming up, it was rather crowded.

* * *

Half an hour after he had entered the first shop, John felt like he needed a break from all the people around him. He found a customer toilet and locked himself in, then he opened his bag to see how Sherlock was doing. He was sitting in one corner, holding his head and looking decidedly green around the gills.

"Motion sickness?" John asked in a low voice.

Sherlock groaned: "And the bloody phone fell on me."

"Are you okay?"

Sherlock huffed: "Hm. Apart from the large bump on my head. Great idea, this."

"May I remind you whose fault it is that we're in this situation at all?"

"You may not." Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes, taking a few deep breaths. Since he really looked peaky, John took pity on him, reaching into the bag: "Come here."

With another theatrical groan, Sherlock scrambled over to John's hand and sat down in it. The doctor lifted him out of the bag: "How about we try the inner pocket of my coat?"

"It's too small, I thought we established that."

"We could cut a hole into the side, so you can stretch out your legs. It's probably not as comfy, but it won't jostle you so much. I'll sew it back shut once you're back to normal."

"Fine. But try not to crush me."

"Behold the famous Sherlock Holmes, ladies and gentlemen, he's ever so grateful for all the massive favours one's doing him."

"Not funny."

"And yet rather satisfying."

* * *

Ten minutes later, Sherlock had settled into the coat pocket, protesting only a little. Even though it was a tad cramped, it was by far preferable to the smelly old bag; the lining of the pocket was silky, and he could feel John's heartbeat, which in combination with his friend's familiar scent was rather pleasant, soothing even.

Sherlock's nausea slowly receded as he stared into the darkness, listening; apparently, they were in a toy shop, judging from the excited children and the insufferably silly music he could hear. If he strained his ears, he could catch snippets of conversations, consisting mostly of exasperated mothers berating their offspring.

It soon became dull not to be able to see though, and he increasingly felt the aftermath of the transformation, a dull ache throughout his body like a profound muscle soreness; with a sigh, Sherlock closed his eyes.

* * *

When John returned to Baker Street two hours later, he felt mentally exhausted. This was not how he had imagined the rest of the day to look like.

"Well, that was tedious," he said, putting the bags down on the kitchen table. "Sherlock?"

He didn't get an answer. With a curse, John tore open the zipper of his coat, hoping he hadn't accidently suffocated his friend. His hands were trembling when he peeled down the rim of the inner pocket. Sherlock had slumped down, and his eyes were closed. He was fast asleep, from the looks of it, probably lulled by the warmth and darkness, and the 'molecular restructuring' very likely had put some strain on his body as well.

To make sure though, John gently prodded him with his finger: "Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"You okay?"

"Hm." He seemed unwilling to wake up.

"We're home."

"Great."

"How's your head?"

"Bumpy."

"Who's our prime minister?"

"Don't have a concussion, John. Leave me be."

"Fine." John manoevred him out of the pocket and carried him into his bedroom where he put him down on the bed, careful not to twist the gangly limbs. Sherlock curled up on his side, not opening his eyes once; he must be absolutely knackered.

John covered him with a soft flannel and put the mobile within reach, then went back to the shopping bags and began to unpack; he had spent a ridiculous amount of money for the items he had just bought. He looked around, wondering where to put them so that Mrs Hudson wouldn't see them, and realized it was impossible to hide Sherlock's condition in the long run. The landlady came upstairs all the time, and if she knew, it'd make everything a bit easier.

With a beer and a sigh, he sat down in his armchair after lighting a fire in the fireplace; it'd have been nice to have his novel at hand now, but unless he wanted to use a magnifying glass, that was not an option.

* * *

John had nodded off at one point and was thoroughly confused when something woke him up; it took him a few seconds to remember what had happened and to realize that it was in fact the buzzing of his phone that had startled him from slumber.

"Sherlock?" he said by the way of a greeting.

"You fell asleep in your armchair."

"_You_ fell asleep in my pocket."

"Yes, erm. I was bored."

John could not stop himself from smiling: "What do you need?"

There was the slightest of hesitations:"The loo."

"Be there in a sec."

* * *

Sherlock had wrapped himself into the flannel; it was rather chilly in the bedroom, and his dressing gown was still lying on the kitchen table.

"How's your head?" John asked.

"Sore," Sherlock replied truthfully. "But I'll live."

John offered him his hand again, which he considered a more polite way to carry the shrunken detective around than just grabbing him like a doll. With a sigh, Sherlock sat down in the palm; while he considered it as a tad embarrassing, it was preferable to trying to keep his balance while standing.

"So, where do you want me to put you down?" John hadn't given the bathroom topic any thought so far.

"On the toilet seat," Sherlock said, irritably, as though that was a given.

"Oh no." John shook his head, "you might slip off and fall. It's either the sink or the tub, your choice."

Knowing he wouldn't get far with an argument, Sherlock muttered "Doesn't matter which." He was flushed deeply red already, it was obvious that he also had not given the matter any thought beforehand. Inwardly, John grinned; he was not above a bit of gloating.

"The sink it is, then," he said.

After he had set Sherlock down and put everything he might need in reach, he left the bathroom, still grinning.

* * *

John made vegetable soup that evening; he did not feel up to the task of figuring out which things Sherlock could or could not eat in his current state, so he solved the problem by pureeing it, just as he would have done with pumpkin soup.

Sherlock watched him with a bored expression, sitting on the kitchen table in a blue doll's house armchair John couldn't resist buying for him.

He had already inspected whatever else John brought home, and he had to admit that most of the things indeed seem useful. John had even bought him some tableware and cutlery, also intended for a doll's house; he hoped that one of the surprisingly sturdy metal knives could be sharpened enough to be used as a razor. He had had other ideas about that, naturally, but John had objected to all of them: no, he did not want to break off a piece from the blade of a cardboard cutter. Neither did he want to find a glass shard of a suitable size. Suddenly, it was all about safety with John.

Sherlock huffed, huddling in on himself; he was wearing the dressing gown, and even though it was his least favourite one, it was remarkably comfortable. The chair was not too bad either, and it had been a good idea at that.

"We should tell Mrs Hudson," John said while they were eating.

Sherlock froze: "No! Why?"

"She's always around, one way or another, and it'd be easiest if she knew. Besides, it'd be a lot easier for me too. I won't have to cancel my appointment at the dentist next week, for example."

"Why would you have to cancel it?"

John sighed. "Not the point. Let's just tell her, okay?"

"She'll be over the moon," Sherlock said darkly.

John grinned: "As long as she doesn't faint..."

* * *

They decided to postpone until the following morning, however. After dinner, John stretched out on the sofa to watch TV; he had put the miniature armchair on the coffee table for Sherlock, and it was peaceful and quiet for about twenty minutes.

"I wish I had my violin," the detective announced, getting to his feet and wandering around the limited space that was available.

"You'll manage one week without it," John muttered, not taking his eyes off the screen.

Sherlock, who was bored, peered over the table's edge and decided it was too high to try and climb down. He then eyed the distance to the sofa; probably manageable with a good jump.

It was only when he had toppled over the mostly empty fruit bowl (plus the solitary apple and the wooden bottle opener which had been in it) whilst attempting to climb it that John sat up: "Jesus," he groaned wearily while he put the fruit bowl out of reach and lifted Sherlock up, this time not caring whether his friend minded or not: "Is this what the coming week is going to look like?"

"What are you doing?" Sherlock squirmed.

"Checking you for injuries."

"I'm fine. Put me down."

"No."

"I'm fine, John!"

"You're fine when I say it."

"I'll bite you."

"Then I'll put you into a drawer and give you plenty of time to think about what you've done."

Sherlock huffed, but remained silent, enduring John's gentle examination with barely contained impatience.

"You're fine," the doctor eventually announced.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Not at all. I'll be glad once this is over."

"Ha. Now put me down."

"Promise you'll sit down and be quiet."

"I'll not promise any such thing."

"My hand it is, then."

"I hate this. I hadn't expected to be so at your mercy."

"It's all down to you, Sherlock. Behave and we'll be getting along splendidly."

A minute later, Sherlock had curled up in the armchair, brooding, and disinterestedly watched the TV show with John.

* * *

When the doctor switched off the TV two hours later, both of them were rather drowsy. Sherlock usually stayed up late, but despite his earlier nap, he still felt the after-effects of the transformation, so he agreed to go to bed even though it was only eleven.

John had not been able to get a miniature toothbrush or anything which might have worked as a substitute, so Sherlock made do with toothpaste and his finger.

"I didn't find proper pyjamas," John had said, a little awkwardly, when he had shown Sherlock his purchases, "but I found a t-shirt and this tracksuit, so you could at least wear the pants if you like."

Sherlock had barely been able to subdue a shudder, since the jacket was of a garishly turquoise colour, and the fabric did not live up to his usual standards.

"Who's Ken?" he asked, inspecting the box.

"Barbie's boyfriend."

"Huh." Sherlock very obviously did not know who Barbie was either, but he was not interested enough to make further enquiries. The grey pants would do, despite their hideous turquoise stripes which matched the jacket; at least the legs seemed long enough. The sleeveless t-shirt was black and of similarly abominable material, but Sherlock still preferred it to sleeping naked.

John put him down on his bed with a rolled up flannel for a pillow, a piece of a former tea towel for a sheet and an old woolen scarf for a duvet; his mobile phone was lying close by.

The doctor did not particularly like the idea of Sherlock being alone downstairs in his current state, but they both wanted to keep their privacy.

"Call me if you need anything," he said, "good night."

"Hm." Sherlock had already begun to unbutton his shirt. With a sigh, John left the room.

* * *

Exhaustion had the doctor sleep deep and dreamlessly. No phone call disturbed him, and it was a luxury not to be woken up by his alarm clock.

Yawning, he rubbed his eyes; half past eight. Wondering whether Sherlock was up yet, he got out of bed and put on his dressing gown. A small part of him was still hoping it might all have been a dream, but there was too much evidence of the opposite around; most prominently, the small blue armchair.

All was quiet downstairs. He peered into the detective's bedroom, half-expecting to find him still fast asleep, but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

John, fuelled by the unpleasant drop of his stomach, did not hesitate: "Sherlock?"

For a moment, nothing happened, and all the doctor heard was the blood rushing in his ears, then: "John..." Sherlock's voice had come from somewhere in the bedroom. Somewhere on the floor.

John circled the bed:"Sherlock, what are you- oh no." Sherlock was just about to try and sit up. From the looks of it, he had attempted to climb down the bed with the aid of the scarf; obviously, it had not worked out quite as he had planned.

"Are you okay?" John squatted down next to him.

"Yes," Sherlock was pale and a bit dazed and gratefully accepted John's finger to support himself; the doctor could feel him trembling a little, and his hands were cold.

"Did you lose consciousness?"

"Y-yes. Can't have been long though."

John squinted to look into his eyes: "Are you nauseous or seeing double?"

"No, it's okay."

"Honestly?"

"Yes, stop fussing."

"What happened? Why didn't you call me?"

"The battery of my phone died."

"What? I checked it last night, it still had enough power."

"Yeah... I woke up around two and couldn't go back to sleep, so I did a bit of online research."

"Idiot," John said fondly. "And where did you want to go?"

"The bathroom."

"Ah."

"It's rather urgent now."

"Are you up for an airlift?"

"Just do it already." Sherlock did not manage to sound as impatient as he would have liked, and quickly scrambled onto John's hand, which was blissfully warm. He did not know how long exactly he had been out, but when he had come to, he had been freezing.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Sherlock sat in the miniature armchair, wrapped in a flannel while his doctor was doing his best to wrap a bandage around Sherlock's right wrist without hurting him. It was difficult with Sherlock being so small, so John had made him promise to say it if it hurt, because he usually was either too distracted by something or another, or his pride prevented him from doing so.

It took three attempts: the first one ended with Sherlock making a strange little mewling sound, followed by John apologizing. The second one ended with Sherlock sucking in his breath in order to keep quiet, followed by John apologizing and cursing under his breath.

Once the bandage was in place, Sherlock sagged back into the armchair, which had once more been placed on the kitchen table, and tried to make it look nonchalant.

"What else?" John asked, patiently.

"It's just the wrist. I'm fine."

"I know I'm repeating myself, but you're fine when I say you are. You just fell from your bed-"

"Not all the way."

"You lost your grip and fell the equivalent of maybe three meters."

"It's not that high, it sounds worse than it was."

"Yeah, I'm sure." John looked at him sternly, which miraculously worked every time. "Which is why you've sprained your wrist and bumped your head _again, _losing consciousness for a moment_._"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but leaned forward and fumbled with the right leg of his trousers, not quite managing to pull it up at first because of his wrist, which elicited a string of elaborate curses. When he finally did, John raised one eyebrow: "And you were going to hide that for how long?"

Sherlock's knee was swollen and angrily red at that. He acted unfazed: "It'll be okay."

"Yes, after we cooled it a bit."

"We don't need to cool it," Sherlock waved it aside (with his good hand).

"Okay, walk for me."

"What?"

"You heard me. Show me if you can put your weight on it without any difficulty."

"I prefer to stay where I am. I bumped my head, remember?"

John smiled: "I'll get you some ice."

He chipped a bit of ice off from the inside of their fridge's freezing compartment, which he then wrapped into a bit of clingfilm and a piece of cloth he had cut off of the former tea towel he had already used for making a sheet.

"You can alternately use it on your knee and your head," he suggested, setting a small stack of matchboxes in front of the armchair. Sherlock watched with narrowed eyes as John put a bit cotton wool on top of the stack before gently lifting his friend's injured leg to rest on it.

Sherlock immediately took it down again.

John sighed: "Really? Why are you being so obstinate, Sherlock? You're only making this even more difficult."

"I don't need to be coddled."

"I'm not _coddling_ you, I'm treating you."

"Not that big a difference. You probably like that you're having the upper hand."

"For God's sake, I'd have done the same if you were normal-sized! And may I remind you once again that it's _you_ who's responsible for this! Perhaps it's news for you, Sherlock, but when I planned this week's leave, I did not expect to have to be your baby-sitter twenty-four seven! Now put your damn leg back on the matchboxes!"

With that, he turned away in order to boil some water and make breakfast.

* * *

Gingerly, though with a frown, Sherlock did as he had been told, placing the ice pack on his knee, which admittedly brought some immediate relief.

John muttered unintelligible things under his breath while he was rummaging around and put things on the table, but his mood seemed to have recovered once he sat down with his tea.

Sherlock had tea, a bit of toast and scrambled egg, refusing the bacon, which he said looked funny with the current proportions and was probably way too salty as well.

John was watching him closely while they ate; a bit of colour had returned to Sherlock's face, and he did not seem to need painkillers.

"Didn't go too well so far, did it?" he remarked.

"Teething troubles," Sherlock muttered dismissively.

John however shook his head: "We need to be more careful," he said seriously. "There's too much which- what are you staring at?"

"I never noticed how much hair you've got in your nose," Sherlock murmured, mesmerized. "Maybe I could-"

"_No_!" John had said that so loud and with so much emphasis that Sherlock actually flinched.

"You are still not taking this serious," John continued, obviously angry again. "Do I really have to explain it to you, Sherlock? This isn't about me having the upper hand, for God's sake! This is about what could happen, and the worst-case scenario would be if something happened to you which required any kind of medical attention that no one could give you right now! I can help you with minor things while you're this small, but you won't find any surgeon who'd even take out your appendix, and that's not because they wouldn't want to, but because they wouldn't be able to do it. Hell, even a simply IV line is out of the question right now, so please- no more climbing or any similarly harebrained activities like that!"

Sherlock avoided his gaze, pursing his lips in a way that translated to _I heard you, and I know that you are right. I can't admit that, however, because admitting it would also mean to admit that shrinking myself was indeed a bit stupid (if _fascinating_ and I'd definitely do it again!). So I'll just act unconcerned for the time being, and maybe a tad contrite to appease you._

"You're such a dick sometimes," John added, sounding calmer already.

* * *

He was just about to put the dishes into the sink when there were steps on the stairs, followed by Mrs Hudson's trademark yodeling: "Yoohoo, boys?"

For a moment, John froze, then he wheeled around and threw a tea towel over the armchair and its occupant: "Sorry," he hissed.

The appalled protest from the under the tea towel immediately ceased when the door to the kitchen opened and their landlady poked her head in: "Good morning," she said brightly, "I've made scones."

"Oh, great," John suddenly did not know what to do with his hands.

Mrs Hudson put the plate on the table, glancing at the curiously shaped tea-towel: "Is Sherlock not up yet? I thought I heard you talking."

John wished he could simply fob her off; it would be so easy to just tell her Sherlock was still in bed and that he had been talking to himself. Which was not going to help their situation however, so he cleared his throat: "Fancy a cuppa?"

The tea towel made an impatient sound and John was beginning to sweat. Luckily enough though, Mrs Hudson had just bent down to pick up something which had been lying on the floor, so she had not heard it.

"That'd be lovely, dear." She sat down at the table and held up the item she had just found: "What's this?"

It was the book Sherlock had shrunk.

"Oh, that...," John once more cleared his throat in order to gain time, "erm.. they gave it out at Waterstone's, it's a... promotional gift. It's a bookmark, see, but I accidentally ripped off the ribbon."

"Things are getting so fancy these days," Mrs Hudson remarked, obviously believing him. She put the book on the table, glancing at the tea towel again.

"Mrs Hudson- there's something I've got to tell you."

"What is it, dear?"

"You know how Sherlock likes to experiment, and sometimes he's... frightfully ignorant of what the consequences might be."

The tea towel gasped indignantly. Mrs Hudson frowned: "Did you hear that?"

John ignored her, quickly continueing what he was saying: "What I was just saying... Sherlock did an experiment yesterday, and now we're having a bit of a situation. A highly unusual situation."

"Oh dear, is he okay?"

"Yes, he is. It's just..." John struggled to find the right words, aware of Mrs Hudson's anxious stare. In the end, he simply shrugged: "He shrunk himself."

Mrs Hudson shook her head: "He _shrunk_ himself? What do you mean?"

"I'll show you. But please, stay calm. It's only for a few days."

With a deep breath, he pulled away the tea towel which had been hiding Sherlock. Who looked livid, but pulled the corners of his mouth up in a mock smile now: "Morning!"

* * *

Mrs Hudson squealed, nearly falling off her chair as she instinctively backed away: "Sherlock? But that's impossible!"

"John, pinch her. She thinks she's hallucinating."

"I'm not going to pinch her." John had quickly circled the table and put his arm around the old lady's shoulder to steady her: "Are you okay?"

She was trembling and could not take her eyes off her miniature tenant, but she nodded: "How... how did you do that? John, how did he do that?"

"I'd very much like to know that myself."

"You don't know?"

"It's _inexplicable_," Sherlock provided. "Which reminds me- do not touch any matchboxes in this flat."

Mrs Hudson scrunched up her nose: You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?"

Five minutes later, after she had had two brandys and gotten over the first shock, she was a lot calmer already. "What happened to your knee, dear?" she asked.

"A little accident. Not important."

John smirked: "We've already learned the hard way that nothing is easy while Sherlock's so small."

"Well, that makes sense. He can't very well get around on his own like this, can he?"

"No, he can't. Someone's got to be with him all the time."

"Oh yes, just rub it in, will you?"

"_You_ shut up."

Sherlock glared at John, folding his arms in front of his chest.

"Aww, you are kind of adorable like this!" Mrs Hudson said, contemplatively.

"No more brandy for her," Sherlock growled. "John, I told you she'd do that!"

His friend squinted, pretending to rack his brain: "If I recall correctly, _I _told _you_."

"If you insist."

"So," John resumed the initial conversation, "we, though to be honest mostly I, would be very grateful if you could help out a little."

"Of course, dear. I can babysit him whenever you need me to."

"For the love of- give me some of that brandy, John," Sherlock demanded.

"No."

"Damn. I should've shrunk the gun. Or some cigarettes."

* * *

Once Mrs Hudson had left, promising not to tell anyone and to find out whether Mrs Turner still had some of her granddaughter's doll's clothes, Sherlock ruffled his hair with his uninjured hand, a typical gesture whenever he was upset or impatient or both.

"She took it rather well," John said, "stop being such a drama queen."

"Excuse me? _I'm_ the one who's being _adorable_."

"Not as much as you seem to think."

"Haha." Sherlock sat back: "We still need to do some tests. Apart from my size, I'd like to measure the volume of my voice, my general strength, my auditive-"

"I need to do the laundry first. And you should rest for a while. You're still rather pale."

"I'm always pale."

"Not like this morning. Besides, measuring your strength will hardly be accurate if you can't use both hands."

"True," Sherlock conceded. "Well, it can wait a few days."

John cleared the table, then turned to Sherlock: "Should I wash your shirt as well, while I'm at it? I'll also do a load of underwear later on."

Sherlock's cheeks flushed a little, but he nodded his consent. There was nothing to it: he only had one pair of briefs, which admittedly should be laundered occasionally.

John went into Sherlock's bedroom and picked up the shirt, which he put in a mesh laundry net to prevent it from getting lost or mangled in the machine.

"I'll just pop down to the basement," he announced once he had gathered everything he needed, "would you rather like to be in the living room and watch TV?"

"No thanks," Sherlock said smugly, pulling John's book out from behind his back, "I think I'll read."

o

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**To Be Continued**

o

Thank you for reading!

I'm not a native English speaker, therefore I apologize for any mistakes (tenses, I know).

o


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock.

Thanks once more to those who read, favourited and/or dropped a few words!

o

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**Best Not To Be Repeated**

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Part 2

o

On his way back from the basement, John popped into 221A to talk to Mrs Hudson. She was rummaging through a pile of shawls: "Ah, here it is. Look, John, I never wear this one, it's just not my colour. How about I cut it up for Sherlock so he can use it as a blanket? That flannel doesn't seem warm enough in the long run."

John, once more touched by her kindness and unconditional love, smiled: "That's a good idea, if you really don't need it any more."

"No, no, one's always got too much stuff anyway."

"Listen, I just wanted to talk to you in private."

"What is it, dear?"

"Well, the whole situation, really. We must make absolutely sure that no one sees Sherlock like this, he is completely helpless."

Mrs Hudson busied herself with folding the other shawls and avoided his gaze; she did not like to be reminded of Sherlock's susceptibilites, and especially not now.

"We'll be careful, then," she said. "You said it'll only last till Saturday, didn't you?"

"Yes, at least that's what Sherlock estimated..." He trailed off.

"Are you all right, dear?"

With a sigh, John sat down at her table. "It's just... it's so typical. He rushes into something head first and leaves me to sort out the consequences. He didn't give it any thought, he just did it. And now_ I'm_ the one who's worrying about him,_ I'm_ the one who's trying to sort out clothes and stuff for him,_ I'm_ the one who watered down his tea and forbid any coffee because his body in its current state might not tolerate it.

I'm doing it for him because I care for him, you know I do. And the worst thing is that he'll probably never even thank me for it, he just takes me for granted."

Mrs Hudson regarded him with an expression full of commiseration and a small smile which slowly widened. "He doesn't take you for granted, dear," she said serenely. "He may not be able to show it or lose any words about it, but he actually is grateful. He was very lonely before you came along, you've changed a lot. He is happier now, more content. And even if he is rude to you, he'll in some way or other express his gratitude, probably when you're least expecting it."

John considered this, then he sighed: "Right. Thanks. I didn't want to complain, actually."

"I know, dear," the old lady patted his hand, "It's good to vent once in a while, considering what you're putting up with."

* * *

The rest of Sunday went surprisingly quiet. John lit a fire in the fireplace, put the miniature armchair and the stack of matchboxes in front of it for Sherlock and worked on his blog for a while.

The detective, for want of anything better to do, actually began reading John's book and proclaimed to be mildly interested. Half an hour later, he had dozed off. John sat down in his own armchair and watched Sherlock for a while; he looked much younger and deceitfully harmless in his sleep.

And Mrs Hudson was right, John had to admit, there was something rather adorable about him with the way he was slumped in his chair, head tilted sideways, oblivious that he was being observed. Maybe it was the vulnerability which came with sleeping like this, which in Sherlock's case represented the exact opposite to his usual alertness; he never let his guard down in front of other people if he could help it.

It had taken John a while to get to know the real Sherlock after they had moved in together, but he, much more quickly so in fact than the strange man who had first spiked John's curiosity in the lab at Barts, had won John's affections in practically no time. He was quirky and sometimes annoying, but he also was someone John could talk to, who listened (as long as he was not thinking about a case or being on cold turkey) and who could not help but being charming when he was relaxed.

Which probably was the reason why John put up with all the nonsense, he told himself, already feeling slightly guilty about his small outburst at Mrs Hudson's earlier.

* * *

"Are you done yet?" Sherlock asked three days later.

"I think it's still too hot."

"Let me try-"

"No, you'll scald yourself."

John patiently added a bit of cold water. He was filling up an antique gravy boat with bath water for Sherlock; after a lot of deliberation on what to use as a bathtub, the detective had come up with the idea. After ten more minutes of heated arguing, John had heard himself agreeing to sneaking into Mrs Hudson's flat and _borrow_ her grandmother's gravy boat for the occasion.

"She's never using it anyway, it's just sitting on her sideboard," Sherlock had said when John had expressed his doubts once he had retrieved the piece. "And washing-up liquid is soap as well, after all."

"Yes," John had said, thoughtfully, "but. A naked butt is a naked butt."

"She'll never know," Sherlock replied, evasively, to his annoyance unable to hide that he was blushing.

The gravy boat had worked wonderfully nevertheless, which was why John had had to borrow the thing a second time.

John now tried the temperature again by running a bit of water over his inner wrist, then nodded: "It should be okay now."

John had put the gravy boat in the bathroom sink for convenience; he dried his hands and turned to go. Sherlock shed his dressing gown and slipped into the hot water, mindful of his still smarting wrist and knee. The latter was not as badly swollen anymore, but John had refused to use the pain-relieving gel he usually applied in such situations because he had been worried that even a low dosage of the ingredients might be too high for Sherlock's smaller body. He therefore had been forced to sit around a lot, resulting in a lot of complaining and grumpiness.

Shaving had not worked so well either; he had succeeded with one of the sharpened knives, but he had also cut himself two times, which, despite the rather copious bleeding, hurt his pride more than his face.

On the whole, he had imagined it all quite differently, more adventurous and less... cautious.

He had suggested rope ladders the other day to at least enable him to get on and off furniture, but John had laughed: "Seriously? Where are we going to get them, in a pet shop? And how are you going to climb them?" He had, of course, been referring to Sherlock's injuries. Even though those were minor, they still did not allow for the kind of climbing a rope ladder required, which Sherlock unfortunately and inexplicably had not considered. He must be slipping; hopefully, his experiment had not destroyed precious brain cells. He was going to have to take an intelligence test once he was back to normal, just to be sure.

* * *

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back; there were certain aspects about that afternoon he would have to delete. John, who had had a dentist's appointment, had taken him down to Mrs Hudson, and things had quickly deteriorated from there.

First of all, she had talked non-stop. Sherlock was experienced in ignoring her subtly enough that she did not necessarily notice it, but not today. Today, he had been forced to _cooperate _while she was doing what John actually had predicted in jest, namely sewing clothes for him.

Even though he did appreciate her efforts, c_ooperate_ was a loathsome term. Yet John had made him swear on the skull, because Sherlock's mood had been ogreish all morning (fuelled even further by a call from Lestrade who had asked for Sherlock's help with a case, which John had turned down under the pretext of Sherlock having the flu), and the doctor did not want his friend to put their landlady off. At least not too much. So he had had to promise he would not be too rude.

If there was one thing Sherlock abhorred more than anything however, it was being forced to do something he did not particularly want to do, and it did not exactly improve his mood. John knew that, so it was not solely Sherlock's fault that he had at one point lost his temper and had ripped the half-finished t-shirt off: "Never call me cute again!" before limping to the far side of the table and sitting down with his back to the old lady, fuming.

Things like that worked while he was his normal size. Maybe it had to do with his height, or his deep voice. In his current incarnation however, he seemed unable to intimidate Mrs Hudson as usual, and he had actually flinched- the abomination!- when she, after a moment of scandalised silence, had all but shouted: "Sherlock Holmes! This is not how you talk to your elders!" (where on earth had she taken _that_ from?)

A moment later, he felt himself clutched, and before he knew it, she had lifted him up and walked out of the kitchen. All his indignant protest had not stopped her, which was why he found himself in her bathtub shortly afterwards.

"I think you need some time to recollect your manners," Mrs Hudson said and slammed the door shut behind her.

Sherlock had been too dumbstruck to do anything for at least a minute.

When Mrs Hudson had come back in half an hour later, he had acted appropriately apologetic to get back in her good books, at least enough for her to take him out of the tub and back to the kitchen. He had been ever so relieved when John returned.

Mrs Hudson's anger had evaporated by then; Sherlock had continued to appear contrite and a bit subdued in addition to using his body language to his advantage, which had worked fabulously: a tilt of the head here, a surreptitious yawn there. Hugging himself with a forlorn expression while pretending not to notice that he was being watched was very effective as well, and whenever he had moved around the table, he had been careful to emphasize his limp.

Mrs Hudson initially had been rather short with him, which lessened considerably after a while as Sherlock noticed with satisfaction, and she did not tell John what had transpired. It was so easy to play people.

If Sherlock was completely honest though, he did feel a tiny bit guilty for snapping at her. Apparently, he was not coping all too well with being so small, it made him feel too vulnerable. He could not wait until Saturday, when it hopefully was going to be over.

* * *

On the following morning, Lestrade called once more.

"How's the patient?" he asked in a buoyant tone. "Driving you up the wall?"

John turned towards Sherlock, who was lounging in his miniature armchair with closed eyes and pretended not to be listening: "You have no idea," he said.

Lestrade chuckled: "Listen, I know he's ill, but I've got a file I'd like him to look at. It's rather urgent, and I thought I might drop it off and he can have a go whenever he feels up to it?" The slight inflection at the end of the sentence betrayed his chipper tone. John bit his lip; he liked Greg, and he did not want to tell him any more lies than necessary. Apart from that, Sherlock was very likely going to be able to help, and it might even lift his mood.

"Okay," he said, "I think we can give it a shot."

Sherlock's eyebrow quirked at that.

After they had rung off, John put the phone down in a hurry: "We have to hide you and everything that's suspicious."

"Oh dear," Sherlock said drily, "good luck with that."

"I obviously meant everything diminutive which shouldn't be here."

"Don't worry, he won't notice. He's Lestrade, he never notices anything."

"Well," John said, holding out his palm for his friend to step on, "we're not taking any chances."

* * *

When Lestrade arrived twenty minutes later, the living room and kitchen were devoid of any traces of 221B's doll-sized inhabitant.

The DI looked around expectantly: "Sherlock's actually in bed then?"

"Er yes, he is. Fast asleep when I last checked on him."

"Huh." Lestrade frowned. "Too bad. I'd have preferred to give him this in person." He held up a rather thick folder: "This is the file of one Peter Carmichael. He has been in prison for the last five years, drug trafficking being the main charge back then." He paused, seemingly uneasy about what he said next: "He's out now, and to be honest, I've got a weird feeling about him."

John looked at him with narrowed eyes: "Explain?"

Lestrade looked positively uncomfortable now: "Well. He almost escaped conviction back then. It was Sherlock who found the vital piece of evidence at the last minute."

The information was not unexpected, of course, but John still felt his stomach drop. "Shit," he murmured. "Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit."

Lestrade was not wont of John showing such a rather distraught reaction. Usually, the doctor remained calm whenever he was presented with a difficult situation, and if he resorted to swearing, it usually was a bit more elaborate. This however spoke of immediate and genuine- well, maybe not trepidation, but John seemed... apprehensive.

"It might just be me," Lestrade sought to appease him, "probably nothing to worry about."

"But you wouldn't have come here with his file if you'd only had a hunch," John guessed.

Lestrade pushed his coat back and put his hands on his hips: "No," he admitted. "I wouldn't. While he was in prison, Carmichael apparently was very vocal about wanting revenge on Sherlock."

John visibly tensed: "_Shit!_"

Lestrade shrugged: "Look, I'm sure Sherlock's perfectly safe. Carmichael'd be stupid to try something so soon after his release."

John barely listened to him, as his mind was reeling. "Mycroft," he said, "we need Mycroft. He hasn't shown up all week, damn it. The one time we need him..." He patted down his pockets for Sherlock's phone.

Frowning once more, Lestrade stopped him with one hand on his arm: "What's going on, why're you so nervous about this?"

John forced himself to calm down; Lestrade had no way of knowing, of course.

"Just let me call Mycroft first," he said, "I'll tell you afterwards."

* * *

Sherlock had been rather averse to the idea of letting Lestrade in on the secret as well: "We certainly _won't_ tell him," he said, indignantly, when John asked him.

"It's only three more days, I doubt that Carmichael will try anything during that time. And anyway, isn't it enough if Mycroft knows?"

"Mycroft doesn't know. I only asked him to put maximum security on Baker Street for a while."

"He's curious, he'll drop by," Sherlock said, "because naturally, he'll want to know why we suddenly need maximum security."

"Which is why I told him about Carmichael. And he won't be able to come here so soon, because he's in China until Monday."

Sherlock huffed: "He'll want to stick his humongous nose in anyway. He isn't as easily fobbed off as Lestrade."

"Speaking of whom," John replied, "he's our friend. And it might come in useful."

"Just like Mrs Hudson, yes?" Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I feel like an animal in a zoo."

"Don't be so melodramatic. It's for your own good."

* * *

Lestrade stared at Sherlock open-mouthed for a full minute. Then, without saying anything, he slowly extended one finger and poked the shrunk detective ever so slightly.

"I'll bite," Sherlock warned him.

"It's really you," the DI said breathlessly, "that's bloody unbelievable."

"Oh, I know what comes next," Sherlock muttered, "_How did you do it_? The inexplicable. _What, really_? _Wow_! Dull..."

John shifted his weight from one foot to the other: "Sherlock, this is serious, stop with the jokes already!"

"Don't shout at me!"

"I'm not shouting!"

"Yes, you are!"

For a few seconds, John and Lestrade both just stared at the small man who was standing in front of them (well, on the mantlepiece), wearing his dressing gown and pressing his hands over his ears in protest. Neither of them could help it, they simultaneously burst into laughter a moment later because Sherlock did look a little ridiculous (and cute, Mrs Hudson would probably have added).

"I really don't see what's so funny about this," he said petulantly once his friends had stopped laughing.

"Unless someone showed you a mirror," John quipped. This time, it took a while longer until they managed to regain their composure.

* * *

As it were, Peter Carmichael was run over by a car two days after his release from prison, and was dead before the ambulance arrived.

Mycroft called John to tell him about it, and even though Sherlock had acted unconcerned, the overall relief in the flat was palpable.

On Saturday morning the atmosphere was rather cheerful for three reasons: Sherlock's experiment was going to expire that day, no one had accidentally found out about it, and the miniature detective had gotten through the whole thing mostly unharmed. There had been no more incidents at night, and even though Sherlock had worked out several escape plans in his mind, he had not tried to scarper, which showed a remarkable effort of patience on his side.

After breakfast, John went to the shops to get groceries and maybe a bottle of champagne which they could use to celebrate later on, once Sherlock had been restored to normal.

The small man was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen table, sorting through a tray of bat bones and making drawings of them with a piece of pencil he had sharpened with the small knife. It was rather comfortable not to have to use tweezers and a magnifying lense for once, and he actually enjoyed himself.

Mrs Hudson came in, carrying a bucket of soapy water: "Good morning," she said brightly and set the bucket down on the stool next to the table before leaning forward to look at the drawings: "What are you doing?"

Sherlock inwardly counted till five. He had never understood the need to ask something which was so obvious. John however had explained to him that people often asked those things just to have a conversation opener, even when it was obvious what the other person was doing. Therefore, he remained calm when he answered: "I've had these bones around for ages. They need to be sorted." There, he had done rather well instead of snapping at the old lady.

She smiled: "They are so delicate, aren't they?"

"Yes." His inner John kicked him. "This was a mouse-tailed bat. Their body is only two point four inches long at the most, and they weigh less than 15 grams."

"Oh, how lovely," Mrs Hudson clapped her rubber gloved hands together and went to open the window: "Well, I'll let you continue with it. Do you mind if I bustle about a little?"

_One, two, three, four, five_. "No, I don't."

"Okay, I'll- oh, that's my phone. Be right back!" She went back downstairs, and Sherlock could hear her chirp once she had answered the call; her sister, then. Might take a while.

He re-immersed himself into his task; these bones really were delicate, it was fascinating. He got to his feet and began to lay them out according to their original placement; how some people could not see the beauty in the composition of skeletons was beyond him.

* * *

A dull thud which had the table rocking ever so slightly made him look up.

Instantly, he froze. Mrs Hudson had opened the window. And now he was staring at the neighbour's cat who had just jumped onto the table and crouched down in front of him, large yellow eyes fixed on him in a way that made a shiver run down his spine.

His mind was reeling; maybe if he said something, the cat would realize that he was not an animal of prey, but funnily enough, his voice did not obey; all that could be heard was a feeble, rather hoarse croak. Slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements, Sherlock backed away from the cat, towards the edge of the table. His phone was lying nearby, but he doubted that he would be fast enough to get any further than reaching and unlocking it if he made a dash for it. The cat's tail was flicking excitedly, and Sherlock was relieved to notice he had reached the table's edge.

There was only way of escape now: the bucket of water. He glanced over his shoulder: the drop was comparable to that of a five-meter-board. He hoped that the water was deep enough, but he did not wait any longer: just as he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, he whirled around and leapt.

Time seemed to slow down. God, how stupid and ridiculous this was. The week was nearly over, he had largely managed to stay out of harm's way, and now this. What if he had miscalculated the angle?

He had not, though. With a loud splash, he landed in the bucket, plunging down all the way to the bottom. Gasping and gagging, he surfaced, spitting out water which tasted like lemon soap; the coldness was breathtaking. What was worse however was that he could not reach the bucket's rim, as the water level was approximately eight or nine inches below it.

The cat had crouched down at the table's edge now and tried to reach Sherlock with its paw; fortunately though, he was too far down.

Ignoring the animal, he shouted for Mrs Hudson, but she did not seem to hear him. Hopefully, either she or John would come back soon; his fingers and toes were already going numb.

The cat had disappeared from his view; good, maybe it had left altogether. Sherlock tried to propel himself up enough to reach the rim, but to no avail. He cursed, teeth chattering from the cold. Great. He sneezed, which was partly induced by the cold, partly by the soap; the scent was rather intense, biting into his nose and his tongue.

God, it was cold. He tried to move a bit more in order to keep his blood circulation going, but it was becoming inceasingly hard.

And then the bucket suddenly shook, shifting a little before it almost comically slowly slipped sideways and began to tilt. Time slowed down once more as Sherlock realized what had just happened and what was going to happen. The darn cat had jumped onto the stool. How had it managed that with only a very small space to land on? Sherlock made a note to read about that. If he survived this day, that was, because the bucket was falling now, and Sherlock was falling with it.

Later on, he did not remember the impact. There was a lot of noise; the water rushed onto the hardwood floor in a small but, if you were in it, violent deluge, carrying the helpless detective along. There was water everywhere; he did not know which side was up, and he could barely breathe because the surface seemed to have disappeared. And then he painfully collided with something solid; the impact took the last of his remaining breath away and swept him into darkness.

He did not hear the voices or the hurried footsteps on the stairs.

* * *

John had just closed the front door behind him when he heard an odd sound upstairs. Ever since he had moved into 221B, he had learned that odd sounds could mean both something good and something bad, and that, no matter which it was, it was advisable to hurry if one heard them. So he dropped his shopping bags and ran up the stairs: "Sherlock?"

"John?" he heard Mrs Hudson's voice behind him, but he did not pause: "Sherlock!"

There was no reply.

The kitchen table was a mess of scattered bones, the floor wet; apparently, Mrs Hudson's cleaning bucket had toppled over for some reason. Sherlock was nowhere in sight.

"Oh, my God," Mrs Hudson now said, panting ever so slightly after rushing up the stairs, "what happened? The bucket was sitting on this stool!"

John's stomach dropped unpleasantly. "Sherlock!"

Only when he picked up the bucket did he see his friend; he was lying next to the sliding door which connected the kitchen and the living room, a small, apparently drenched heap.

Mrs Hudson made a small mewling sound at the sight.

"Sherlock." John, not heeding the wetness, knelt down next to him and very cautiously touched his back; he could not see Sherlock's face yet, but he seemed unconscious. John gingerly turned Sherlock onto his back; he was breathing, thank God, but he was bleeding from a cut underneath his hairline. He looked utterly pale, and his skin was icy cold, his lips having a blue tinge.

"Get me an old towel," John ordered, talking to Mrs Hudson, "the softest you got, and not a freshly laundered one. Then boil some water, quickly."

"Sherlock," John said, trying to rouse him,"can you hear me?" He did not dare to move his friend as long as he did not know whether there was any damage apart from the wound on his forehead, and judging from the temperature of his skin, Sherlock also needed to get warm as soon as possible.

"Sherlock!" He touched the detective's face with the tip of his finger. "Sherlock, wake up."

After a moment or two, Sherlock moved ever so slightly; his body tensed as he gained consciousness, and he began to tremble from the cold. Which was a good sign, meaning he was sufficiently alert.

"Take your time," John said, "open your eyes when you can."

It took another minute or so until Sherlock began to blink. He coughed up a bit of water, weakly turning his head to the side, and John felt helpless.

"Sherlock," he repeated, a rush of adrenaline surging through him when his friend's gaze found his own, slighly unfocused.

"Are you in pain?" John asked, "does it hurt when you breathe?"

"C-cold," Sherlock mumbled; he was shaking by now, and quickly closed his eyes again.

Mrs Hudson came back in: "Here, it's the softest I could find."

"Okay, take the scissors out of the top drawer and cut it in half."

The old lady looked a little alarmed, but did as she was told.

John decided to risk it: "I'm going to pick you up, Sherlock. Tell me if anything hurts. Mrs Hudson, I'll need your help."

"Of course, dear."

Together, they carefully lifted Sherlock onto the towel; he groaned a bit, and twisted his upper body sideways, bringing up more of the water. Of course, John thought, trying to steady his friend while the heaving abated, there had been some kind of cleanser in the water.

"Mrs Hudson," he said in an undertone, "can you bring me the bottle of the soap you used?"

After a moment of comprehension, she rushed off, returning only a minute later. John was relieved to see it was organic and non-toxic.

The vomiting had stopped in the meantime, but Sherlock still looked worse for wear.

* * *

While Mrs Hudson set about cleaning up the mess, John carried Sherlock into his bedroom where he quickly peeled him out of his wet clothes and dried him off as best as possible, then he wrapped the second towel around him and laid him onto the hot water bottle Mrs Hudson had meanwhile prepared, rubbing the small man's hands and his feet until they were not that icy anymore.

Next, he took care of the head wound; fortunately, it had stopped bleeding. Sherlock, who had so far been mostly unresponsive, winced when John applied a bit of antiseptic gel, and his eyes, which were reddened because the soap had irritated them, fluttered open.

"Hey," John said gently, his voice full of affection. "How are you feeling?"

"Awful," Sherlock's voice was barely audible. "Cat came in."

God. John forbid himself to think about what other consequences they might have had to face, and concentrated on his friend instead, whose trembling was subsiding: "Are you still queasy?""

"A bit."

"Getting warm, at least?"

"Yes."

"Good. I'll be right back."

John went into the bathroom and paused for a moment, only now realizing that he was trembling himself. This incident could have ended so much worse, he was glad that it was about to be over some time today.

When he came back into the bedroom, Sherlock's trembling had lessened to short bouts of intermittent trembling. His eyes were closed, but when John sat down on the mattress, he opened them again, blinking dazedly at his friend.

John smiled: "I'll have a look at you now, if you don't mind."

He gently palpated Sherlock's limbs, then helped him to sit up and examined his torso; his ribs and his left hip were thoroughly contused, but nothing seemed broken. All in all, he was battered and bruised and actually did have a concussion this time, but he could still count himself lucky.

John could feel Sherlock's still accelerated heartbeat, evidence of shock, and found that he did not want to let go of him so soon; he seemed as frail as a bird, and it frankly was a little alarming that he put up no resistance at all. But his core temperature still was too low, and it was not going to help if he stayed upright for too long; he might get seriously nauseous. So John eased Sherlock back down, wrapped the towel around him and covered it with the piece of former shawl which had served as a blanket this past week: "Try not to fall asleep yet. I'll bring you a cold cloth for your eyes."

* * *

"The cat? Oh no," Mrs Hudson covered her mouth with her hand. "It's all my fault then! I left the window open when I went to take the phone call!"

"It's okay," the last thing John needed right then was a fit of hysterics. "It could have been me as well."

"But it wasn't you, was it, it was me!"

"Mrs Hudson, please calm down. There's no point in blaming yourself."

She drew a trembling hand over her forehead, but nodded: "All right- what can I do?"

"Some tea would be lovely."

"Coming up," Mrs Hudson said, shakily, and went about it with a mournful expression. At least the cat seemed to have fled, but to be sure, the old lady had a good look around while she waited for the water to boil.

* * *

John sat with Sherlock the whole morning, worrying. What if his body was too weakened to change back, was he stuck like this then? What if it did change back but it went wrong? What if the concussion caused further damage? What if Sherlock did have internal injuries that John had overlooked?

Thoughts like these were reeling in the doctor's mind as he kept watch over the detective, who had fallen asleep after drinking a bit of tea.

After a while, John gently lifted Sherlock off the hot water bottle and settled him on the mattress; he opened his eyes ever so briefly, but did not wake up. His skin felt warm to the touch now, and John only hoped he was not going to develop a fever. Sherlock had not been coherent enough to tell him the details of what had transpired, therefore John had no way of knowing how long his friend had been in the water, for example.

He wished, not for the first time during this week, that Sherlock had never gotten hold of that darn matchbox. He had already checked it, but it had not refuelled in the meantime; there was not even the faintest glow.

Sherlock woke up in the afternoon; John had roused him a few times in order to check whether he was all right, but this time, it happened of its own volition. For a while, Sherlock only blinked dazedly, then his gaze focused on John.

"How are you?" the doctor asked.

"It seems that I can't stay out of trouble," Sherlock muttered.

"Right." John smiled, despite himself. "Do you need anything? Something to drink?"

"No."

"Your eyes feeling okay?"

"Yes."

"Okay. You should rest a bit more, then." John did not want to trouble his friend unnecessarily, but he was unable to keep the slight hesitation out of his voice.

"But?" Sherlock asked, sounding wearily; of course he had picked it up. And of course, he was too curious to let it go by.

John shrugged:"Do you think you'll change back like this?"

"No idea." With that, Sherlock closed his eyes again.

"You're not... worried?"

"No." Sherlock sighed. "Not worth the trouble."

"Not worth the-" John snorted, pursing his lips. "As long as_ I'm_ the one who's got to deal with most of it, you mean."

"Exactly," Sherlock muttered, not bothering to open his eyes again. "You'll be there, after all."

"Will I!" Fuming, John got to his feet and stormed into the hall. He had half a mind to go out and get some air, but despite it all, he could not bring himself to leave the flat. He went into the living room instead, silently ranting about Holmeses in general and Sherlock in particular until he felt calm enough to sit down.

With a sigh, he flopped down into his armchair and leaned back, closing his own eyes for a moment; thank God the cat hadn't gotten Sherlock, what a close shave it had been. What a mess.

* * *

When he woke up, he was momentarily confused, needing a few seconds to recall what time of day it was and why he was napping in his chair. He blinked and groaned when he noticed the crick in his neck, but sat up when he registered someone else's presence nearby. In his own armchair opposite of him sat Sherlock, staring at John with a pensive expression.

"Oh Jesus, it worked!" John was immediately wide awake. "You're back to your normal size. I'm so glad, Sherlock!"

The detective frowned: "What are you talking about?"

John however barely listened to him: "Yes, I know, you didn't doubt it'd work. Still! How's your head, should you be up yet? You look much better." He stopped himself when he noticed the absence of a wound on Sherlock's forehead.

"How's _your_ head, if anything," Sherlock replied, "seems like you've worked too much lately."

Now John frowned as well: "What- so- you mean- you did not... shrink yourself?"

Sherlock's eyebrows nearly disappeared in his hairline as he regarded the doctor now: "Not to my knowledge, no."

"Oh." Strangely enough, a small part of John actually was disappointed. "But- you shrank my novel and then told me how it'd end!"

"This one?" Sherlock held up the book John was reading. "I didn't read it, but honestly- even _you _can probably figure out how a book about Thomas Cromwell and Anne Boleyn is possibly going to end."

"Yeah, I suppose," John muttered, dazedly. "So- it was all a dream? You didn't jump into Mrs Hudson's bucket to escape the cat?"

"I swear on Mycroft's umbrella that I didn't," Sherlock said, amused.

"Well, then," John gave him a brief smile. "That's all the better for Mrs Hudson's gravy boat. It never saw a naked butt after all."

"You don't make a lot of sense right now," Sherlock remarked, "are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes," John sagged back into his chair. "I think I am." Wow. Maybe he should consider writing books for a living.

"Tell me more about that dream."

"Really? And why are you so calm? When I left for work this morning, you were up and ready to shoot the wall!"

"Yes, but in the meantime, Lestrade called me to a crime scene, and I solved the case within record time."

"Must have been extraordinary if it lasts this long."

"You're making me sound so difficult."

"Oh, far be it from me. So, tea?"

"The water's just boiled. Oh, and Mrs Hudson brought some cake earlier."

"Yes," John said, slowly, "I thought I had smelled some cake." He got up to make the tea, looking around: no miniature items were lying around, no small blue armchair which actually belonged in a doll's house was standing on the coffee table.

Sherlock followed him into the kitchen: "So, how did I shrink myself?"

John paused: "You never told me what you did with the matchbox. You know, the _inexplicable_ one."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing, it just... I was just wondering about that."

"I gave it to Mycroft," Sherlock said lightly.

"Huh." John set two mugs on the worktop and looked around for the box of teabags; he caught Sherlock's gaze for a moment, and smiled.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I'm just really glad to see your old self," John answered truthfully.

"O-kay? Now, how _did_ I shrink myself?"

John carefully unwrapped the teabags: "You built a machine."

"What kind of machine?"

"A big one, with lots of blinking lights. I don't know how, I didn't see how you did it."

"Did I build it here, in 221B?"

"No, you rented a storage room."

Sherlock pondered this for a while:"I don't think that's how I'd actually do it."

"No?"

"No. I'd do it right here, in 221C."

"Well," John quipped while he poured hot water into the mugs, "good luck with that."

"But I'm not actually going to build one," Sherlock said. "I wouldn't even know how to begin." He yawned. "Should we get some take-out tonight?"

Could it be that Sherlock Holmes was actually tired? John hardly dared to believe his luck.

"Sure," he said, handing Sherlock his tea, "and maybe some wine."

o

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The End

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Thank you for reading, I'd appreciate some feedback!

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